


Pixie Blossoms

by VenatorNoctis



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Age Difference, Come as Lube, M/M, Sex Pollen, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22593601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenatorNoctis/pseuds/VenatorNoctis
Summary: Alphinaud gets directions from the wrong denizens of Il Mheg, and shows up at Urianger's door in quite a state."Thou hast partaken of the pollen of Desire's Dragons," Urianger says. He puts a large, strong hand on Alphinaud's shoulder and steers him into the cottage, closing the door behind him. "We must divest thee of any soiled vestments, and quickly.""Please," Alphinaud gasps, as Urianger begins to strip him.Divest thee of any soiled vestments, hells, even Urianger's poetic archaisms are attractive right now.
Relationships: Urianger Augurelt/Alphinaud Leveilleur
Comments: 7
Kudos: 63
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Pixie Blossoms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [superbolide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superbolide/gifts).



Everyone in the Crystarium thought he was mad for setting out to visit Urianger alone, but Alphinaud refuses to be daunted. These pixies cannot possibly be a greater threat than those he has already faced as one of the Scions. The first ones that he encountered didn't even seem hostile! Flirtatious and a touch strange, but pleasant enough and willing—once they understood who he was looking for—to give him quite detailed directions to reach Urianger's place of refuge.

He makes his way through the fields of pink and gold, the strange fae blossoms that still flourish under the ceaseless Light. Il Mheg is a warm country, the air damper than most of Kholusia and the scents of flowers heavy on the breeze. It makes Alphinaud's head swim in a way that isn't entirely unpleasant; he's reminded faintly of the spiced mead in Ishgard.

Here and there he can see the strange fauna of the fae lands, the oversized insects and walking plants. He could likely face them down if he needed to, but he isn't here to train. It's been too long since he spoke with anyone who understands the situation they're in and it's driving him mad.

The further he walks, the more the heat seems to be getting to him. He can feel it pulsing in his veins, and his mouth is growing dry. His skin is tender, as though he's feverish, and his steps are clumsy. He's oddly aware of his cock, pressing gently but insi stently against the confines of his smallclothes.

He trips over something—an exposed root, perhaps—and stumbles, falling into the flowers. A shimmering, golden spray of pollen bursts into the air around him, making him cough and sneeze. His skin flushes hot and arousal pulses through him, sudden and unreasonable. This shouldn't be happening.

Alphinaud staggers to his feet, trying to brush off the pollen, but every touch makes his head swim and his nerves throb. The Bookman's Shelves sits at the peak of the next hill. He can make it that far. Surely Urianger will know what to do about this.

His head is swimming by the time he makes it to the front door, and knocking takes all the concentration he can muster. He wants to shove his hands into his leggings and touch himself. He wants to fall to his knees and offer his mouth the second the door opens. He wants—

Urianger pulls the door open and frowns down at him. "Alphinaud. What hath befallen thee?"

"I fell," Alphinaud says thickly. "In the flowers. And now..." He wants to just reach out—he _is_ reaching out, despite himself, tugging at the belt of Urianger's black robe. This is wholly inappropriate—Urianger knew them from childhood, studied with their grandfather, has always been unfailingly proper to both him and his sister—but Alphinaud can't help himself.

"Thou hast partaken of the pollen of Desire's Dragons," Urianger says. He puts a large, strong hand on Alphinaud's shoulder and steers him into the cottage, closing the door behind him. "We must divest thee of any soiled vestments, and quickly."

"Please," Alphinaud gasps, as Urianger begins to strip him. _Divest thee of any soiled vestments_ , hells, even Urianger's poetic archaisms are attractive right now. He's dizzy, feverish, arching helplessly into every incidental touch. He fumbles clumsily at the laces of his leggings, getting them loosened just as Urianger pulls his shirt off him. The cool air is such a relief against his overheated skin.

"Too much of the pollen hath found its way already into thy blood," Urianger says, his gaze sweeping over Alphinaud's skin, and Alphinaud's nipples stiffen from just the attention. "I pray thee, take no offense at this; 'tis necessary for thy safety."

Alphinaud shakes his head; offense is the farthest thing from his mind. Urianger strips his leggings and his smallclothes from him and Alphinaud lifts each foot to assist with the removal of his boots. He's entirely bare, his hands on Urianger's shoulders for balance, and his aching, needy cock so close to Urianger's lips—

"Here," Urianger says, coaxing him further into the cottage, guiding him to lie down on the thick carpet. "Thy need is pressing, is it not?"

"Yes," Alphinaud says, and then " _yes_ ," much more urgently, when Urianger reaches down to wrap a warm hand around his cock. The friction is so good it makes his eyes sting, wrenching a helpless sound from his throat as he rocks up into Urianger's grasp. "I've never—it's never felt so _urgent_..."

"Tis the blossoms," Urianger tells him, low and soothing, stroking his cock steadily. "The pollen they produce driveth men to frenzies of lust, rendering them insensible of anything else and afflicting them with a powerful fever until the pollen is fully consumed."

"How—how long does—aah!" Language deserts him as a climax wracks his body, making him spill over his belly with an incoherent cry. It goes on until the pleasure becomes painful excess, until he grabs Urianger's wrist to make him stop. Urianger releases his cock and Alphinaud lies trembling, still flushed and hot, and increasingly aware with each second that climax brought no relief.

"How long does the affliction persist, thou wouldst inquire?" Urianger leans over him, looking into his eyes as though searching for something. Alphinaud nods. "All depends on the dose, and to judge from thy symptoms, 't would seem further interventions will be required to relieve thee."

Alphinaud nods, squeezing his eyes shut and biting his lip. He tries touching himself but his cock is still too sensitive and he whines in distress.

Urianger makes a quiet sound of concern. He moves, cloth shifting, and when Alphinaud opens his eyes he realizes Urianger is disrobing as well. That's only sensible, isn't it? When the pollen might have gotten on his clothes, too. Alphinaud finds his gaze drawn downward, seeking the outline of Urianger's cock beneath the man's smallclothes—or the true shape of it without them, as Urianger strips those off as well.

Alphinaud's mouth goes dry. He's never really thought about Urianger's cock, never considered the man in a sexual light before the damnable pollen made _everything_ a matter of desperate, unslaked need, and he was a fool. Not more than half hard, Urianger's cock is already near the thickness of Alphinaud's wrist, and he can't imagine craving anything more.

" _Gods_ , please," he moans, spreading his legs as Urianger kneels between them. His face flushes hotter when Urianger swipes his fingers through the spilled seed, and then he whimpers when those slicked fingers press into the cleft of his ass. His hips arch as Urianger pushes them in, the stretch rough and sudden but as welcome as it is intense. When he can stand to open his eyes, Urianger is watching his face, studying him like he's a problem to be unraveled, and even that is excruciatingly appealing.

And clearly Urianger has done this with someone before, despite the hermetic appearance he maintained—his touch is precise and unerring, finding Alphinaud's prostate and stroking it with steady, merciless pressure. Where a more direct touch was too much, this is maddeningly good, making Alphinaud's cock twitch and drip more fluid as he trembles under the pollen's influence. His fingers dig into the carpet beneath him and his legs flex uselessly. Everything _hurts_ , his skin too sensitive, his balls aching with the need to come again.

This shouldn't be enough, is _never_ enough by itself, but his head is swimming and his body is tensing and he can barely breathe—and another climax overtakes him, making him sob and tremble as he clenches around the fingers filling him.

"Art thou satisfied?" Urianger asks as he stills his hand, as Alphinaud lies panting in a desperate attempt to find his composure.

"No," Alphinaud says, even before he's really taken stock. But it's true; the aching need that comes before a climax has persisted through this one, leaving him still as unsatisfied as before. He makes himself look up to meet Urianger's eyes, and the heat and focus there emboldens him: "Fuck me?"

Urianger hisses. "As thou wilt," he says hoarsely. He pulls out and wipes up the freshly spilled seed from Alphinaud's belly, using it to slick the shaft of his cock—which _is_ hard now, and big enough to make Alphinaud's heart race with the nervous thrill of it.

He doesn't have long to admire it, though, because Urianger grabs him by one wrist and pulls, rolling him over with apparently no effort. He moans, scrambling to get his knees and elbows under himself so he can arch up and offer his ass to be taken.

"If thou needest respite, only ask and it shall be thine," Urianger says, which is kind of him, but unnecessary.

Alphinaud nods. "Thank you, but what I need most is not respite but _your cock_."

Urianger makes a low noise, raw and hungry like Alphinaud has never even imagined him being, and one of his hands takes a rough grip on Alphinaud's hip. His cock nudges at Alphinaud's hole and then pushes, stretching it wide enough to burn despite the warmup. It's enough to make Alphinaud's breath stutter and his thighs tremble, sinking into him steady and relentless.

"Yes," he moans when Urianger takes hold of his other hip too and pulls him back, impaling him on the full length of that thick cock. "Yes, like that, more."

"Thou shalt have my all," Urianger promises. He pulls back to drive in again and Alphinaud loses himself in the sensation: being stretched open by that thick shaft, being filled and stroked by it as each thrust forces his ass to accommodate the invasion. His whole body rocks forward with the force of it, the carpet rough under his elbows and knees, and even that friction can't blunt the desire that drives him. Those little pains, the sting of his stretched hole, the dull pressure of the cock deep inside him—all of it combines to feed the fire of arousal that burns in his belly.

He reaches under himself to take hold of his cock, and by now he can bear that touch again. He scarcely needs to stroke it, simply provide a loose grip for Urianger to fuck him into. He's utterly lost his composure, gasping only to have breath to whimper, pleasure crackling up his spine as every deep thrust undoes him further. His skin is hot and tender all over, his cock is the hardest it's ever been in his life, and his balls are drawing tight with need. His head is swimming. Nothing matters but the raw hot friction of getting fucked. He's so _close_ , and then he's there, climax shaking him apart as the whole world goes white.

The next thing he's aware of is a cool washcloth on his face, gently wiping down his sweat-damp skin. Memories flood back and his cheeks heat, but he makes himself open his eyes. Urianger is sitting beside him, somewhat disheveled but dressed again, wearing a grave expression that softens when Alphinaud meets his eyes. "Tis good to see thee return to the realm of the living."

Alphinaud smiles in chagrin. There's a sheet over him, as though he had any modesty to preserve after that display, and he feels _remarkably_ sore, but his head is clear. "Thank you," he says. "That was not exactly the entrance I planned to make."

Urianger nods. "I do not doubt it," he says. The touch of the washcloth is soothing, leeching away the remaining fever as it rests against Alphinaud's nape. "Didst thou discover the blossoms accidentally, or did the denizens of Il Mheg guide thy steps?"

"I... Of course. That was why the pixies were so eager to provide directions." Alphinaud shakes his head, looking down. "I've caused you quite some trouble in my thoughtlessness."

"Tis no trouble," Urianger reassures him, tone fond enough that Alphinaud finds it not so hard to believe. "The pixies make for meddlesome neighbors, but if thou art unharmed, then I have no complaints."

"I am unharmed," Alphinaud confirms. The ache of being well-fucked can scarcely be called _harm_. "And I—while I may not think much of my own judgment today," he glances shyly over at Urianger for a moment, "my feelings regarding your assistance are entirely positive."

Urianger coughs, and appears to be attempting to hide a smile. "Full glad I am to hear it." He sits back, giving Alphinaud room. "Upstairs, if thou wouldst care to venture there, thou mayest wash more thoroughly, and find clothes to borrow until thine own are free of pollen."

"That sounds like an excellent idea," Alphinaud says, pulling the sheet around himself. "You'll be staying here?"

"Seeing to a light meal," Urianger says. "To help restore thy strength in the wake of fever and exertion."

Food _does_ sound extremely welcome. Alphinaud gets up on his knees, preparing to rise, and after a moment's hesitation dares to lean over and kiss Urianger's cheek. "You are an excellent host."

Urianger startles, but gives him a smile in truth, and Alphinaud feels himself relax. He might have misstepped on his way here, but things are going to be all right.


End file.
